


Something Wicked (Will Not Kill You)

by di0brando



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Good Slytherins, M/M, Mentor Severus Snape, Mild Horror, Occlumency, Paranormal, Past Violence, Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Slow Build, genderqueer Draco, horror warnings may increase, slytherins are good people sorry rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-15 02:26:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14781899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/di0brando/pseuds/di0brando
Summary: After Harry loses Sirius, the Order decides to place him in hiding for the duration of the Summer. His safety is their top priority, but Harry only feels isolated when he's dropped into the middle of nowhere with his bitter potions professor.Much to Harry's surprise, there is no shortage of unanswered questions hidden in the corners of Snape's property. If Harry can't see his friends or improve his potion-making skills, the least he can do is try to figure out why this supposed haven feels increasingly dangerous with each passing day.One may run from sorrow, but sorrow doesn't sleep, and it doesn't stop walking.





	1. One Step Forward

 

 

The walls of the little house on Spinner’s End seem to close in around the frail boy. His panic rises and rises until it feels like he’ll never make it to the front door. His wand is lost to him--he’d dropped it but was too petrified to try and double back—and his luck grows worse by the minute.

The boy’s hands and trousers are smeared with blood, as he’d slipped up in the liquid while darting down the staircase. He tries not to think too hard about where the blood had come from as he grabs the nearest door frame and swings into the kitchenette. He slides across the tiled floor when his bare feet smack down into another wet substance—not blood, but he doesn’t want to think too hard about that, either. Bony knees strike the floor and throb in pain, but the boy, Severus, does not stop in his frantic scramble for the door leading out of the house. It’s right there--just within arm’s reach, clunky doorknob and everything, but Severus’ focus zeroes in on the noises coming from behind him.

Joints popping and jaw clicking, with a heavy footfall that seems slow and deliberate. Severus’ long hair sticks to his sweaty face. His teeth chatter, and his hand trembles so hard that he doesn’t even have to turn his wrist in order to undo the lock on the door.

Severus can hear new drops of liquid hitting the surface of the kitchen table. One of the chairs sounds deafening when it’s tilted back and dragged across the cracked tile with no polite intentions. If Severus dies now, the least he can say is that he tried to leave. He swallows hard and clasps the doorknob firmly—as soon as he touches it, the room goes still, and the noises behind him stop.

If Severus closes his eyes, he can pretend that this stretch of silence means that this has all been a bad dream. If he waits for the seconds to crawl by, he can pretend that he’s no longer in any danger. His heart skips a beat when he feels the doorknob successfully move. The door opens just a tad, and it gives him a false sense of security.

“Your legs will give out eventually.” Says the voice behind him.

Severus steels himself and walks out into the night air.

 

 -Present Day-

 

Harry’s jaw is set with dissatisfaction when he appears at the top of a green hill in the middle of nowhere. The area is littered with dipping dirt trails and sloping terrain; white flowers litter the fields, and the breeze makes them all shift in unison. Low mountains can be seen in the distance, but they’re so far away that they’re only a faded purple. If he were here under any other circumstances, Harry supposes that he’d really enjoy the view. Unfortunately, he can only muster a buzzing frustration in light of recent events.

\--

“Snape?” Harry asked, his voice carrying a bit of indulgence. He’d thought it was Remus pulling his leg, and despite everything, it was funny. Remus rubbed at the back of his neck, pointedly not making eye contact with Harry for a moment. The two had been seated on a bench in an empty muggle park—it vaguely reminded Harry of when he first met Sirius, albeit his godfather had been a grumpy-looking dog at the time.

“I’m not quite joking, Harry,” Remus said with trepidation. “Not everybody in the Order is happy about it, but Dumbledore says—“

Harry looked somewhat betrayed at that. Of course there was no room for an argument if Dumbledore had been the one to approach Remus with the subject. Remus clears his throat and tries again.

“Dumbledore says that Snape has a private bit of land. Heavily warded, secluded. I like to think that you’d be safe there—“

“Safe, so long as I’m miserable, stuck there with him!” Harry protested, his brow set in a heavy crease. “You may as well stick me with Vernon again.” Remus tried not to sigh but he did rub at the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, and the dark circles under his eyes told Harry that he hadn’t slept in days. The look on Lupin’s face made Harry second guess his own whining, but he still felt that he wasn’t being treated fairly.

“We’ve talked about this, Harry,” Remus said gently, trying not to rouse the boy’s temper. The days without Sirius left the two of them in a tense position; they shared in their mourning, but certain topics left them both snippy. “We don’t have many options at the moment. Everything the Order suggests is flawed somehow, and there are too many damned loopholes.” Lupin tilted his head back and stared tiredly at the nearest apartment complex. “For Snape to suggest something like this…I want you to know how high our stakes are.”

Harry made a face. Snape had suggested the move to his property? He was pretty sure that he could imagine the reluctance and distaste involved. The professor probably had to keep from gagging when he spoke to Dumbledore about it.

Harry adjusted his glasses and stared down at the band-aid on the back of his hand. What he wouldn’t give to be a Weasley for the Summer. He’d rather stay at Hogwarts, or be with Hermione, or…be anywhere other than where Lupin was telling him to go. It was then that Lupin placed a hand on his shoulder.

“…It’s just for the holiday…if we think of another solution, I’ll take you elsewhere as soon as possible. I promise.” Harry felt his eyes sting again. Lupin’s mouth quirked. “Think of it this way; I’m sure he can’t kick out if you decide to put salt in his sugar pots.”

Harry smiled a little.

\--

Now, Harry finds himself catching sight of a building as he makes his way down a barely-used path. Dumbledore sent him here; Harry can’t apparate, and Snape seems paranoid about Order members (or anyone, really) finding out about this place. Hedwig shakes her head a bit from where she rests in her cage, and Harry likes to think that her movement is one of disapproval.

“If he gives us any chores, I suppose they can’t be much worse than what Aunt Petunia gave us, right?” Harry asks his owl. At least one thing won’t change; Hedwig will be his only companion throughout the isolating Summer months.

Once Harry arrives on the property, he gets the full picture, but it’s nothing he would’ve otherwise associated with the Potions Master. The property as a whole has no clear shape; its perimeter is marked with loose, wooden fencing. ‘Farm’ is the first word that comes to mind, and it leaves Harry wondering if Dumbledore even sent him to the right location. There is a building that is no doubt a barn, albeit it isn’t but so large, and it isn’t painted red. The dark wood is fractured in some areas, and the roof has seen better days, though the structure as a whole doesn’t seem to be in danger of collapsing anytime soon. To Harry’s far right, there is another small building, and its fenced-in yard includes a handful of chattering hens and a couple of ducks.

Farther back behind the chickens’ area, there seems to be a shed, but it’s compact and otherwise not worthy of observation. Throughout the main yard, there aren’t any stepping stones or decorations. The patchy grass almost makes Harry snort, as he doesn’t think Snape’s done many outdoor activities in his lifetime.

Harry has only seen Snape in black robes for the past five years; one wouldn’t assume that he could tolerate dirt on his cloaks and shoes, but maybe he uses spells to keep the dust from kicking up onto his trousers. Despite Snape’s hair, his classroom and mannerisms always made Harry think he was somewhat of an organizational nut, hell-bent on maintaining the pretentious air that many Slytherins seem to have.

Harry’s feet carry him forward and he finally takes in the main house—the one that he’s supposed to stay in from now on. It’s…rustic, to say the least. Harry’s never seen a building like this in person; most of the structures back home consisted of more brick and stone. The house isn’t large, but it isn’t small, either; there are two floors and a front porch. Harry feels less claustrophobic than he did moments ago, considering he thought that he’d be in a cramped space with Snape for days on end. Now he wonders if he’ll even have to run into his professor much at all. Maybe he can just stay in certain rooms and avoid talking to him altogether, and Snape would probably appreciate that, too.

There are three small steps leading up onto the porch, and a black cat sits at the bottom of them, eyeing Harry before narrowing her eyes at Hedwig. There’s no hissing involved; however, so Harry isn’t too concerned about that potential relationship at the moment.

“Right on time. I wasn’t expecting as much.”

Harry braces himself and looks up at the front door. Snape is standing there, glowering (as he is wont to do) and he looks no different from usual. Harry was at least expecting a different type of cloak due to the new setting, but his sour professor can’t even grant him that much. His wardrobe is just another reminder of how uptight and intolerant Snape is—a reminder of how Harry’s going to have to deal with the same old nonsense from him despite his recent traumas.

“Professor,” Harry greets. The least he can do is try and be reasonable. He’s not sure that starting off day one with an attitude will win him any favors. Then again, Snape doesn’t seem to like a kiss-ass, either.

Snape’s lip quirks slightly, and Harry can’t tell if it’s harsh amusement or general indifference.

“If you’re expecting me to wait on you hand and foot this season, you’re in for disappointment.” Snape’s low cadence makes Harry frown. Snape doesn’t expect Harry to reply to him, he just jerks his head slightly, urging Harry to follow him inside.

“You’ll be staying upstairs. There is a guest room to the right, around the bannister, at the end of the row. The kitchen is here.” Snape vaguely gestures to the left. “I don’t care when you eat, but I do care if you don’t clean up after yourself; I’m not your maid.” Harry wants to take in the layout of the bottom floor, but he’s scared of missing something as Snape narrates with a bored tone, like he’s reading from a script.

“I won’t always be here; when I’m not keeping children from blowing themselves up, I’m developing research. There may be times when I am gone for several days, and there will be chores that I expect even you can accomplish. You are to finish all of them. I’ve a lab in the basement, and should you even _think_ about sneaking in or grabbing something from my stores, I will send you back to your relatives so quickly that your head will _spin_.” Snape adds with some venom, turning on his heel in order to glare down at Harry. Harry says nothing, but his grip on his suitcase tightens a bit.

“Yes, there are animals on the property. No, I’d rather you didn’t enter the barn at all. Starting tomorrow, you’ll never be short on work—school-related or otherwise. Don’t make your stay here _inconvenient_ for me. Your insufferable Headmaster seems to think that this is what’s _best_.” Snape finishes with a mocking tone, letting Harry know just what he thinks of Dumbledore’s approval. Harry isn’t one to argue with Dumbledore, but this time, he can’t help but share Snape’s inclination. He just barely considers wanting to find out what Professor Trelawney gets up to during vacation instead.

Snape begins to stalk down the hall leading behind the staircase, and Harry wants to kick himself for opening his mouth, but he’d rather not get yelled at later for something he wasn’t informed of.

“Professor?” Harry calls out, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The old rug beneath him translates no noise to the wooden floorboards. Snape pauses and already seems irritated, but he indulges and turns slightly.

“Can Hedwig fly?”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “Is she not an owl?” His voice drips with sarcasm and Harry tries not to take the obvious bait.

“I just…can I send letters?” Harry’s voice loses a bit of volume. He still isn’t sure what Snape reacts worse to, even after all of their occlumency training—showing backbone or showing hesitation.

Snape is silent for a moment, and Harry can practically see his professor determining whether or not to reply with a certain amount of condescension. Finally, Snape thankfully settles on an ‘I couldn’t care less’ tone.

“There is an outer ward that your owl cannot breach. She can be loose on the property but cannot leave it.” A pause. “Regardless, every Death Eater in the country knows what your owl looks like. No letters.”

Snape dismisses himself, and Harry looks down at Hedwig with a sigh.

“Wonderful.”


	2. Two Steps Back

Harry heads upstairs after Snape disappears into the back of the house. His bedroom isn’t unattractive or small; the furniture is pretty minimal, but Harry gets the impression that the entire house is lacking in decorations and personal touches. His bed is pushed to the back left corner of the room, and there are two windows—one beside the bed, and one on the right wall, facing out to the front yard. There’s a small desk that sits underneath that window, and there’s a simple chair not far from it.

A small closet resides by the bedroom door; a wardrobe and a bookshelf sit on either side of the work desk. Harry slings his bags—filled with clothing and school supplies—onto the bed, and sets Hedwig’s cage on the desk. Finally, he unfastens his broom from its pack attachment and props the shaft between his bedframe and the windowsill. He tries not to linger on the broom. He has to focus on getting his bearings, so he can’t afford to get wrapped up in thoughts of Sirius at the moment

Harry walks over to the desk and opens its respective window. The fresh air hits him and ruffles his hair, and Harry notes that it smells nothing like the breeze back in Little Whinging. The space here feels fresh, he notes, as he leans forward to take in the full sight of the property below. Harry has no idea where Snape’s wards end, or how many he even has in place. There’s an opening at the end of the yard that suggests a gate used to be there. The wards could end at the fence line. Maybe they stretch farther out onto the hills.

Harry doesn’t even know what country they’re in—Dumbledore wouldn’t provide that information, mentioning something about Snape’s personal wishes. It leads Harry to wonder what this place is even for; it still feels wildly uncharacteristic for someone like Professor Snape. When Lupin mentioned a secret location unknown to the Order, Harry imagined a damp basement or a run-down shack in the middle of a forest.

He’d mentioned it to Hermione and Ron before he was picked up by Dumbledore. Ron seemed more unnerved than anything. He expressed concern for Harry, vocalizing ideas about Snape hosting shady business for Knockturn Alley folk in a place where Ministry eyes can’t pry. Hermione, though skeptical, seemed to vouch for Snape’s legitimacy.

“He’s a former Death Eater, Harry,” She’d tried gently. “If I were him, I wouldn’t want them to know where I rest.”

Harry opens Hedwig’s cage and lets her inspect the room. If she can’t go off too far, Harry doesn’t mind her getting some exercise, seeing as she never got any back at the Dursley’s. With a couple hours of daylight left, Harry decides to explore the house. He finds a small bathroom beside his room—convenient but also terribly simple. There are three additional rooms on the other side of the staircase; one turns out to be an open study containing several bookshelves completely filled with ancient and intricate books. The other two doors are closed, and Harry doesn’t want to risk angering Snape by going around and testing locked rooms. 

The downstairs expanse of the house is somewhat larger. The kitchen includes a long line of cabinets and drawers, and there is a small table in the center of the room with four chairs. There’s even a walk-in pantry including dry goods and preserves at the far end beyond the sink. The hall on the left side of the staircase seems to have another bathroom. There is a cupboard under the stairs, but Harry certainly doesn’t bother eyeing that for more than a second.

There’s a heavy door made of dark wood on the left wall, and it seems out of place when paired with the rest of the house’s colors and make. The door has a few runes and etchings running up its frame, and Harry takes note of the heavy physical locks that are no doubt warded. He makes the conclusion that it’s Snape’s potions lab.

The large room on the right side of the staircase is just a large parlor—there’s a piano in the back corner, and a quaint brick fireplace that runs up the right side of the house. Harry kind of wants to know if the piano actually belongs to Snape, but he doesn’t think there will ever be a good time to ask the git. Better to leave it alone and decide that he isn’t that curious about it after all.

Harry takes an immediate liking to the hens outside. They seem perfectly content to peck at his shoelaces and look at him with naïve interest. They mean no real harm and Harry ends up sitting down in a patch of grass with the desire to watch them mill about.

There’s no way that Snape takes care of chickens. Harry’s never so much as seen him with a personal owl. Chickens aren’t dignified, and they certainly aren’t intelligent. He really wants to tell Ron and Hermione about this, though there’s no way they’d ever believe him. Lupin would probably laugh until his ribs hurt. It’s silly, but he misses the others already. It’s only been a couple of hours since he arrived on the property, but Harry’s not sure that any of this will feel real anytime soon.

A hen gets close to him and just sort of stares for a moment. Harry reaches out to touch her, but she only allows it for a few seconds before backing away. Does Snape not really live here? Is this someone else’s house? Are these chickens actually free-range so he doesn’t have to ever bother feeding them?

Harry’s attention is drawn away from his thoughts about Snape’s humorous double-life when he hears a fairly loud noise coming from the barn. He rises to his feet and peers across the yard at the adjacent building. It sounded like something striking wood—a clatter, really. Harry exits the hens’ area and finds himself halfway towards the barn when something in his peripheral stops him in his tracks.

There’s that black cat from earlier, sitting in the dirt. Staring at him accusingly with her tail swishing back and forth. Maybe he’s being paranoid, but the cat kind of strikes him as a tattle-tail. Harry eyes the barn again but turns and heads back to the house. Snape told him not to enter the barn, so he won’t, especially if that cat’s charmed in some manner. Far-fetched, maybe, but Harry knows that Snape is paranoid and likes to draw his own conclusions about the actions of others.

The end of Harry’s day is uneventful. He prepares a bit of sausage and corn for a small dinner, as he’s anxious about using ingredients or utensils he’s not supposed to. He’s not sure why Snape would get angry over Harry making a full dinner, but Snape has been a prick for simpler reasons, and Harry is used to getting screamed at for sneaking slices of bread into his room back at the Dursley’s.

Harry doesn’t see Snape again, even after the sun goes down, but he decides to play it safe and not snoop around. He ends up in his bed at a fairly early hour, and he doesn’t get to sleep until his longing for Sirius dies down into emotional exhaustion.

The next morning, Harry quietly makes his way into the kitchen, only to find Snape already seated at the table. His wardrobe is the same, and Harry wonders if Snape even went to sleep last night. He does need to start snooping a bit—he should be able to tell Ron if their professor really does sleep upside down like a bat.

There’s a thin stack of papers in Snape’s hand, and he seems to be reading the contents intently. A steaming cup of dark tea sits on the table in front of him. Harry shuffles into the room with only brief hesitation, and Snape doesn’t even look up at him. Harry’s grown less nervous around Snape in the past year, what with their occlumency practice sessions, but there’s a piece of him that’s still eleven and intimidated—sitting in that potions classroom for the first time and feeling nothing but embarrassment.

He tries not to let his hesitation feel palpable; he still doesn’t know where most things are located in the kitchen, and he doesn’t want to seem like an idiot by asking or fumbling around. He decides to play it safe and take the loaf of unpackaged bread from its box.

“…I don’t suppose that’s the Prophet,” Harry tries, asking in a roundabout way if Snape even gets the paper out here.

“Why on _Earth_ would I read the Prophet?” Snape deadpans, raising an eyebrow but not looking up from his parchment.

“Yeah, it is kind of rubbish, isn’t it?” Harry concludes. He’s not the biggest fan of the content that the Ministry allows to be printed, but he does somewhat long for a connection to the wizarding world. He’s always behind on the latest trends and events whenever he heads back to school, and Ron can’t update him but so much in his letters.

Snape doesn’t dignify Harry with a response, but that suits Harry just fine. He spreads butter on his slices of bread and places them on a small tray. At the very least, the silence in the room isn’t terribly awkward, it’s just…different. Harry just waits for his bread to finish its time in the oven until he hears Snape talk.

“I believe you and your classmates have essays to work on over the Summer,” Harry grimaces at the oven. Of course that would be the first thing he brings up. “No doubt Granger has already completed all of hers.” Snape doesn’t make that sound like an insult, but it might be one. “I doubt that catching up on some reading will make your marks any more abysmal.” Harry pulls his toast out of the oven and tells himself not to take the bait. His occlumency sessions have taught him that Snape just seems to get a kick out of being snide half the time—this is one of those moments where there’s no real heat behind his words.

“Are all of the books in the study about potions?” Harry ventures. The edges of his toast look golden-brown and such a simple thing makes him more pleased than it should. There’s a pause. It’s the second time that Harry seems to have caught Snape off guard with an honest question.

“…Most of them are. They aren’t written for students, but I don’t care if you take one from the shelves.”

The subtle permission takes Harry by surprise, but he doesn’t let it show on his face.

“And all of this is yours?” Harry dares to peek over his shoulder before taking a bite of his toast. “The house, I mean.”

“You certainly don’t ask this many questions in my classroom, Potter,” Snape’s eyes lift from his parchment, and Harry’s head quickly snaps forward. His cheeks turn pink with both embarrassment and irritation. He doesn’t bother arguing with Snape’s accusation—the prick probably knows that he dismisses most classroom questions with a showy sneer.

“If you must know,” Snape says, shifting one of his papers, “The property is mine. I purchased it some years ago from a muggle. There are some that live in a village not but so far from here, and a woman insisted that I take some hens from her. Are you satiated, or would you like to know about my furniture, as well?” Snape asks with a tone that lies somewhere between mild amusement and mockery.

“Sorry,” Harry mutters around his toast, though he’s not as put off as he could be. It’s good to know that there’s a town within a reasonable distance; maybe it’ll be good to visit every so often and occupy his time. It’d take his mind off of things and give him something to tell his friends about. He’ll ask about the distance later—he’s probably used up all of his allowed questions for the moment.

Snape finishes his tea and rises to his feet, and that’s when Harry shuffles out of the way towards the sink. No alarm bells have been set off just yet, but Snape is less easy to handle when he so visibly towers over most everyone else. His robes also take up a bit too much space, and Harry figures that that’s always been somewhat of a tactical choice to match his height. Snape’s cup is clean with a bit of wordless magic and when he looks over at Harry, Harry is back to being on guard.

“Working on your assignments would be a decent use of your time today. I’ll be in my lab. Don’t bother me unless the house is on fire.” Snape turns and his cape takes up quite a bit of the kitchen as he moves. “I’ll have some cauldrons for you to clean this evening.” And that didn’t sound like a suggestion; Harry will definitely be scrubbing cauldrons later.

Before Harry can even so much as sigh, his professor is gone.

Harry actually does spend most of his day trying to pluck his way through studying. He does a bit of reading from one of his textbooks, and occasionally skims through one of the old tomes he got from the study. It’s filled with a lot of jargon that feels unnecessary—like the writer was trying to prove himself to his colleagues—Harry sometimes wishes that Hermione where here to help him decipher some of it. He manages to pick out sentences and reword them so that they make more sense in his head. The text seems to mostly be about the importance (or unimportance) of muggle ingredients in practical potion-making. Harry isn’t bad with his academics by any means, but he does have to take breaks from the tedious writing and go back to material that he’s used to.

By the time the sky begins to gain an orange tint, Harry feels somewhat accomplished. Once his tasks picked up a bit of subjectivity, he actually focused, and the time passed by fairly quickly. He’d stopped to eat lunch and mess around with Hedwig for a bit, of course, but he was never really distracted by thoughts of Sirius or the growing threat of…well…

Inevitably, the sky turning orange means that he’s probably due to check in with Snape about those cauldrons. He meanders downstairs but hesitates before the locked cellar door. His fist hovers in the air—he’s about to try knocking—but the locks come undone by way of magic, and the door swings open.

Harry pushes up his glasses and carefully makes his way down the somewhat creaky steps. It feels humid down here, and the lighting is dim. Once he passes the overhang, the room opens up—it’s larger than he expected, and the floor space is broad. Several fat cauldrons are placed evenly in a row down the center. All of the walls have shelves and racks covering them—all filled with jars, bottles, vials, and boxes. Snape stands by the cauldron on the far right. Faded-blue fumes waft up from the cauldron, and Harry tries not to gape at the fact that Snape’s appearance has actually changed.

Harry was mostly joking about the monotony, but now that he looks at Snape’s alterations, he isn’t sure what to make of it. Snape has his hair tied back with a black ribbon, and his cape is gone. That’s about it; there still isn’t an inch of skin showing, save for his hands, and Harry’s not sure he’ll ever wear anything other than black, but this is also something that his friends won’t believe if he tells them.

“Have you been down here all day?” Harry asks.

“I see that the passage of time has reset your insufferable question card.”

Harry forgets to tell himself to not rise to Snape’s goading, so he ends up getting a little aggravated. Snape can never just let words be. He feels the constant need to manipulate them and take control over them, especially when they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth. Harry doesn’t have a decent retort, so he’ll save his temper for when he can better match Snape. Now that he sees that Snape’s behavior isn’t changing just because of Harry’s presence in the house, he feels less of a need to be as…polite.

“There are cauldrons on the floor,” Snape says as a way of giving vague instruction. He’s occupied with the small jar in his hand. Harry makes his way past the main, in-use cauldrons and eyes the smaller rows stacked near a back shelf. There are five or six cauldrons in need of cleaning, which isn’t bad; he’s had to scrub over twenty while under more hostile circumstances in detention.

Harry makes himself comfortable on a stool and begins to wipe at the outside of a pot with a damp brush. All the while, he stares at the back of Snape’s head, wondering how such a slight change of hair could be so…weird. He starts to get lost in his thoughts—a single question has been in the back of his mind since he got here, and all the while, he unknowingly stares at Snape.

That is, until Snape turns around and glares.

“You are positively _vibrating_ with the need to bother me, so do spit it out.” His professor sneers, and that’s when Harry lets his temper flare. It's one snide remark too many, and Harry's back to trading barbs with his intolerable professor; it's like he hasn't even left detention.

“If I’m such an inconvenience, why did you offer to have me stay here?” Harry asks, louder than he means to be, but that’s what’s been on his mind. Hermione and Ron didn’t get it, either. Dumbledore evaded his questions, as was the standard.

Harry grips his brush hard and his breathing is slightly heavy. Silence hangs over the two of them, and Snape’s posture becomes less offensive when he straightens his back and lowers his shoulders.

“Don’t tell me it was out of the goodness of your heart.” Harry dares, and he kind of wishes he hadn’t said it, but he can’t take it back now. Snape, surprisingly, meets it with evenness. At the very least, it’s a façade, and at the most, it’s genuine composure in the face of what he no doubt would call a bratty fit.

“You would not believe half of the tasks I go through with out of the _goodness of my heart_ , Potter,” Snape uses a slight affectation to mock Harry. “Despite your _burning_ need to get on my last existing nerve, I don’t particularly care for the Dark Lord. Surprising, I’m _sure_ ,” Snape draws out the end of his sentence, zeroing in on Harry’s opinions in a way that’s somehow too revealing.

“I’m a member of the Order, and unfortunately for myself, I’m the most competent of the lot. To the point; the most capable of keeping you from back-flipping into a Death Eater meeting just because you don’t quite care for staying _put_ somewhere. So here we are.” Snape concludes, his eyes narrowed and his lips tilted into a cruel smirk.

Harry inhales deeply, and tears of absolute anger sting his eyes. He feels belittled. He feels so frustrated, considering the fact that Snape always takes it one step too far, and the fact that Harry has only felt ill and raw lately. He has no idea why he thought that he’d be able to endure an entire Summer with this sanctimonious asshole. He has half a mind to hex Snape, but he knows that he certainly can’t. He can only miss Sirius with a deep hurt, and he can only wish Remus were here to give Snape a piece of his mind. He can only wish that he were literally anywhere else.

“How’s your arm feel lately, Snivellus?” Harry asks before he can bite his tongue. He sets his cauldron down none-too-gently and storms toward the staircase.

“What in Merlin’s name did _you_ just—“ Snape prowls around his cauldron, shoulders tight and teeth bared.

“Please do send me off, Professor!” Harry snaps over his shoulder. “I’m more than happy to be someone else’s problem.” He goads before disappearing up the stairs.

Harry takes off his glasses and wipes at his eyes as he heads up to the guest room, taking two steps at a time. He’s going to have to try and get in touch with Remus tomorrow...somehow.


	3. To Find One's Footing

Harry wakes up early but doesn’t try to venture downstairs for breakfast. He doesn’t want to risk running into Snape, who’s probably already contacted Dumbledore in order to tell him what a mouthy, arrogant brat Harry is. Harry doubts that the Headmaster would agree with Snape, but he can hear Dumbledore in the back of his head telling him to ‘listen to Severus for a while.’

It’s not like Harry thinks his reaction last night was unwarranted. He’s very aware of the strain he puts on the Order, even though none of them will ever call him a burden. Credit where it’s due, Snape is the only one willing to vocalize the gravity of the situation. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier to listen to; Harry doesn’t want any of his companions to be put in harm’s way because of him, especially considering the rise in Death Eater activity. Harry can deal with Snape’s….everything, but only in doses. At least back at Hogwarts, he had plenty of friends to talk with after one of his tiring occlumency sessions.

Harry doesn’t spend too long second-guessing last night’s temper; he shouldn’t be expected to deal with the emotional strain all summer long. No…he needs to be able to stay somewhere else, security concerns aside. It takes Harry all of ten minutes to get dressed and decide that he’s going to try and head for the village that Snape mentioned—maybe there he can brainstorm and think of a way out of this tangle.

Somewhat clumsily, Harry climbs through the window beside his bed and clings to the frame with one hand. The other hand grabs his broom, and once it’s through, Harry pushes off of the side of the house and takes off into the air. He hovers for a moment, trying to decide how he should approach this. What if Snape’s wards knock him off of his broom when he tries to pass—he did mention that Hedwig wouldn’t be able to leave the property. Maybe that doesn’t apply to the people residing here?

Harry decides to fly off at an angle, so that he isn’t clearly visible from the house’s front windows. He’s going to try and be back as quickly as possible, and there’s no guarantee that Snape won’t find out that he’s gone, but precautions don’t hurt.

Anxiety builds in Harry’s throat as he gets closer to the fence line, and he prepares to smack right into an invisible wall, but the impact never comes. Harry continues to fly, and he’s surprised to find that he’s well past the fences after another few seconds. His nerves aren’t calm until Snape’s property is only a speck tucked away amidst the sloping hills. He feels no ill side-effects, and he can see the expanse of green fields and patches of trees below him. If anything, he may have set off an alarm when he passed a certain point, but he’s already committed. He’ll deal with the repercussions when he goes back to the house.

Harry spends a few more moments flying until he spots a loose group of buildings nestled on the left side of a broad hill, with a dirt road leading directly through the middle of the village. If all of the villagers are muggles, Harry’s going to have to play it safe. He decides to touch down not far from the village entrance and hide his broom in a patch of brush, where he hopes nothing will happen to it while he’s exploring. Loathe as he is to not have an eye on the gift from Sirius, it’s too flashy and it may raise questions.

The walk into the village is relatively quiet, but he can hear some people talking, along with the sounds of sheep and chickens. He hopes he can call himself a traveler, or explain that he’s staying in the weird house not far from here; if Snape got those hens from a resident, they should at least be able to tell what Harry’s referring to.

Harry rehearses some small talk in his head. Maybe he shouldn’t go by his real name, and maybe he should ask if there’s a city within a reasonable distance—he’d have better luck of getting into contact with another magical person if he were in a city.

Before Harry can think too hard about this; however, he hears a woman speak to him from where she stands on a crooked porch.

“It’s not every day we get a visit from a magician.”

Harry startles somewhat and turns to look directly at the stranger. She’s an older, dark-skinned woman, with subtly-graying hair wrapped up in a braided bun. Her stature is broad, but she’s short, and she wears a humble sort of dress.

“I’m sorry?” Harry asks with fake humor, though he’s suspicious. The woman doesn’t seem interested in playing the game. She smiles, though not unkindly, and places a hand on her hip.

“I know who you are, Mr. Potter. It’s hard not to recognize a face that always looks so inconvenienced in the Prophet.” The woman raises her eyebrows and gestures to the front door of her little hut. “Luckily for you, there won’t be any other people who’ll know your name today.”

Harry glances hesitantly at the other nearby cottages. There are a couple of people milling about and doing chores, but they either don’t notice him or don’t care that this woman has company. Still wary, but not unsettled, Harry follows the woman into her hovel.

“You’re a witch?” Harry asks, voice low once he’s inside. Her kitchen area is filled with dried herbs and hanging flowers, all tied in bundles and probably ready for potion brewing, if Harry were to guess.

“That’s what the village calls me, and they’re more on-the-nose than they think they are.” She turns to face Harry once she’s grabbed a small jar of powder. “You can call me Fayette.” She purses her lips slightly.

“Fayette…” Harry starts with some hesitation. He’s still taking in his somewhat cramped surroundings. Fayette’s living space is just filled to the brim with ingredients and items used in complex brewing. “You live here?” Perhaps a dumb question, but Harry’s caught off guard. Snape said that this was a muggle village—either he didn’t mention the witch, or he doesn’t know of her presence.

“I’ve lived here for just about half my life, sure,” Fayette answers. “The people here are more than happy to have me, and as far as they’re concerned I’m a miracle worker.” She lowers her voice with some humor. “But between you and me, they only ever seem to need ointments that a second-year student could make.”

“The Ministry—“

“Doesn’t care if some old bat like me spends her time healing scraped knees and sick cows. They have bigger fish to fry…like perhaps…The Boy Who Lived, gone into hiding.” Her lilt suggests that she’s in on the bigger conspiracy. Harry is still nervous.

“How did you know…?”

“That you’re in hiding? Mr. Potter, you’re certainly not staying in London, and you aren’t going to be spotted at Hogwarts…what else could you be doing other than hiding? All the way out here where you can’t even find a telephone?” Harry supposes that she has a point; it’s not but so difficult to figure out.

“Do you know Professor Snape?” Harry decides to ask, though he figures he can guess the answer.

“Severus? Of course! He and I trade a few things every now and again. I’m the one who pushed him into taking some hens in—a bit too lonely out there, if you ask me, and the eggs don’t hurt.” She winks. “I take it you’re staying with him?” She pauses at the anxious look on Harry’s face.

Fayette’s smile drops, and she sets her jar of powder to the side. She wipes her hands on her apron.

“Harry,” She tries for familiarity, but it doesn’t strike Harry as weird. She sounds like a Hogwarts professor, almost--weirdly comforting. If he squints, he can compare her demeanor to Professor Sprout’s. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to trust any old witch these days. I know about the Ministry, and I have enough sense to know that half of what’s in the Prophet isn’t worth reading.”

“You have friends tucked away in all sorts of nooks and crannies, Mr. Potter. A lot of good people have their ears to the ground, and are looking out for your well-being.” Harry’s face turns pink when under scrutiny. He’s never going to get used to being a hero in the eyes of others. Coming to terms with the growing war is a work in progress, and there’s still a part of him that’s insisting that he’s ‘just Harry.’

Fayette’s expression turns from reassuring to contemplative.

“Though, if I’m to stick my nose into it…I can’t say that I believe Severus’ property is the best place for you.”

Harry’s face almost lights up, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Harry almost exclaims. “There have to be other places where I’d be safe from the Death Eaters.” Fayette’s brow creases at that.

“No, Severus’ land is definitely your best bet at hiding from You-Know-Who. The quilt of spells that he’s stitched together is one of the most elaborate displays of skill that I’ve seen, but the foundation of it all is unsettling.”

Harry shakes his head, bemused. “What do you mean?” Fayette pauses for a moment, thinking over her choice of words. She looks like she’s about to elaborate, but her eyes shift and she changes the topic.

“Does Severus know you’re here, Harry?” Harry looks away with a frown.

“…I came here to see if there was a way I could get in touch with someone.” He tries. Despite her kindness, Harry’s not sure if she won’t tell Snape about his little venture. “I just thought I’d see muggles here, but now I want to know if I could maybe use your fireplace?” Harry turns his head to look at the hearth on the other side of the kitchen. Fayette quirks her lips with some form of disapproval, but she doesn’t reprimand Harry for his evasiveness.

“Go ahead,” Fayette sighs, “But don’t rope me into this if Severus finds out.” She gestures to her fireplace before leaving the room, giving Harry some privacy.

His ability to contact Lupin is based on luck, Harry realizes, and as he sticks his head into the warm flames, he hopes that he’ll have caught the Grimmauld Place floo at a decent time. After a moment of anxious whispering, Harry’s genuinely surprised—and relieved—to see Lupin’s face appear in the flickering glow.

“Harry?” Lupin asks with immediate concern. “Is something the matter?” He clearly wasn’t expecting any correspondence from the boy anytime soon.

“Of course something’s the matter—I’m stuck here with _Snape_.” Harry doesn’t whine, but it surely is a broad complaint. If Lupin rolls his eyes, Harry can’t tell.

“Harry, it hasn’t even been a _week_. I don’t care for him, either, but surely he can’t be making you eat pickled draught ingredients.” Lupin tries not to sound exasperated. Harry feels that twinge of guilt again; Lupin is working through the loss of Sirius, too. Harry’s not the only one enduring it.

“…He always gets so petty when he’s irritated.”

“Don’t we all?” Lupin tries. “What’s so different from usual?”

Harry doesn’t have a good answer, because it’s not like much is different. He sees Professor Snape almost every day at Hogwarts, and they’re both pretty clear in their mutual distaste.

“…I probably said something I shouldn’t have.” Harry admits, though it’s a very reluctant and tiring confession. Lupin’s silence is an obvious cue so Harry sighs. “I know what Dad used to call him. So I said it, too. And I brought up his dark mark.”

Lupin rubs at his forehead and chuckles humorlessly. “Harry—“

“I know I shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t stoop to his level whenever he’s being a prick!” Lupin scolds, albeit mildly. He pauses. “I’m not Severus’ biggest fan. I don't like him very much, either—“ Harry goes to speak but Lupin cuts him off by raising a finger. “But, let me play devil’s advocate. You complain whenever he compares you to James, but then what do you do?”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut at that.

“Harry,” Lupin says, exhaustion dripping from his words. “I miss your parents almost every day.” Harry wonders if Lupin’s voice is hoarse or if the man is just trying not to choke up. “And I think Severus still clings too tightly to the things that I’ve put behind me, but there again, James wasn’t the one being bullied.” Harry’s expression tightens.

“I know you don’t know everything, and it’s certainly not my place to tell you everything, but his life has never been easy.”

“My life isn’t easy,” Harry mutters under his breath with some bitterness.

“But what makes it easier? Your friends, right?” Lupin gives Harry a sympathetic expression. “How many of those do you think Professor Snape has?”

The question makes Harry feel uncomfortable. He has no desire to feel sorry for Snape, what with the way he treats everyone around him, but he feels a hint of sympathy nonetheless. If he hadn’t met Ron on the Hogwarts Express, he sometimes wonders if he would’ve ended up in Slytherin.

“I think,” Lupin says carefully, “That you two are both hard-headed individuals, but when it comes to stubbornness, he has more years of practice under his belt. Just…think about apologizing, maybe, and try to avoid him if you can.”

Remus makes it all sound so easy, but of course it never really is. Harry feels better than he did earlier, but he’s still clinging to his pride somewhat. He’s never apologized to Snape for any of their confrontations, and he hardly ever second-guesses the conclusions he draws about his professor.

“We’ll try and relocate you before the summer is over, you can hold me to that,” Lupin says with clear affection. “We all want you to be happy, so trust that we’re not doing this to punish you.”

“Thanks,” Harry isn’t sure if there’s anything else to say. “Sorry for being a bother.”

“You’re never a bother,” Lupin says with conviction, and then he glances back away from the fire. “I have to go now. We’ll talk again eventually.”

Then Lupin is gone, and Harry pulls away from the flames with a heavy sigh. He came here in order to try and convince an Order member to take him away—at the very least, he would’ve liked some validation—but Remus’ words only made him doubt his perception. Harry rises to his feet and shuffles just as Fayette bustles back into the room.

“Everything in order, I hope?” She asks, eyebrows dipped with curiosity. Harry shrugs. He’s done talking about his troubles for the moment.

“Thanks for letting me use your floo,” Harry says with a mild grin. “I’m…happy to know that I’m not completely by myself.” Fayette approaches Harry and sets a hand on his shoulder when she notices that he doesn’t appear to mind her being in his space.

“You’ll never really be alone, Mr. Potter, even all the way out here.”

Those words linger in Harry’s mind during the fly back to the farmhouse. He feels weirdly at peace as the wind shifts through his hair, even though he may very well be facing consequences for leaving the property later.

Fayette struck him as a kind woman who expected no reward or reciprocation for her actions. Finding her almost seemed too good to be true, but he’s grateful to have met her. She insisted on giving him a biscuit and a glass of water, and they chatted for a few more moments before he’d left her hut. Fayette told him that he could come and visit her whenever he’d like, but something else stuck out in his mind—something else that she said before he went off to grab his broom.

“Just…do be cautious during your stay there. If something doesn’t feel quite right, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Harry’s eyes narrow as he flies closer to Snape’s plot of land. He doesn’t really understand what Fayette was referring to, but her tone was somewhat odd. It’s almost as if she couldn’t determine whether or not she should even say anything at all. Regardless of what she actually meant, Harry will remember her offer. Voldemort’s goals and the stress being put on the Order are top priorities for Harry, but no matter the source of his troubles, he may be able to trust Fayette with some of his frustrations in the future.

It’s not long past noon when Harry touches down by the chicken pen. He smiles faintly because the hens just observe him with a certain blankness, and he will never be The Boy Who Lived in their eyes. Harry props his broom against one of the fence posts and sighs, looking up at the farmhouse.

He doesn’t really want to go back inside, seeing as Snape may be in the kitchen, just waiting for Harry to show his face. It’s not like Harry feels like fighting—he’s too tired to go at it with Snape again—but he still doesn’t necessarily want to apologize for last night. He told Remus and Sirius a while back that he knew better. He swore that James was wrong for acting the way he did, regardless of his age, and that Harry was capable of behaving maturely.

As stubborn as Harry may be, he knows that he should be able to live up to his claims. He can’t condemn his father’s actions and repeat them in the same turn. Even though he doesn’t like Snape, he needs to try for civility.

With new determination, Harry strides into the house, albeit he shouldn’t expect to run into Snape as soon as he crosses the threshold. Harry’s mild bravado deflates almost immediately upon finding a note on the kitchen table.

‘Order business will keep me away until the evening.’

Harry actually laughs a bit in the face of his own poor luck. Snape’s been gone all morning, and all Harry’s been doing is worry about how his professor will reprimand him for slipping out of the house. In Snape’s absence, Harry supposes that he’ll just have to improvise with his newfound desire to be civil.


	4. New Steps, Old Boots

It’s around nine in the evening by the time Snape gets back to the house. Harry doesn’t hear the sound of apparition, and he doesn’t have any way of knowing if the wards reacted to their master’s return in some manner, but he does see Snape enter through the front door.

Harry’s seated at the kitchen table, with multiple books and papers open and sprawled over its surface. He’d been reading and jotting down notes for hours with a certain devotion, once again only taking breaks to tend to Hedwig and the birds outside. His studying surprised him, as it continued to succeed in deterring his anxieties.

Harry swallows hard and sits up straight, eyes slightly widening when Snape pauses in the kitchen doorway. He looks no different from usual. His dark robes seem to swallow up the entire opening, blocking the foyer behind him—if he’s had a tiring day, the dull expression on his face does not reveal it.

“I uhm…I’ve tidied up the house a bit,” Harry starts with some amount of courage. He’s not scared of Snape or his attitude, but he doesn’t want to repeat the cycle from yesterday. He wants to try something that he doesn’t normally bother with when it comes to Snape.

“I did some dusting, and I swept the floors. There was some fruit that had to go to the hens, by the look of it.” Harry lists off, daring Snape to instigate. Leave it to the bastard to be petty and claim that he didn’t want the living room to be cleaned up at all. “There’s also some, ah, tea in the kettle.” He has no idea if it’s a kind of tea that Snape likes, or if Snape even cares, but the offer still stands.

Snape doesn’t say anything, but he does step into the kitchen. Maybe he knows an olive branch when he sees one, or maybe he just sees it as a white flag, instead.

“Color me surprised, Potter. This doesn’t look like a reading assignment.” Harry almost lets out the breath he’d been holding but he doesn’t want to be too obvious. He watches as Snape raises an eyebrow and brushes a few papers aside with his pale fingers. His dark eyes scan over some of the same texts that Harry was shuffling through earlier.

“I did pull a couple of books from your study,” Harry says, his guard still up. “They seemed interesting.” It’s a simple statement, but it’s not one that Snape can turn into a witty barb. Snape finally looks directly at Harry and narrows his eyes—like it’s suspicious that Harry even knows how to read.

“The magic depicted here is not suited for inexperienced wizards,” Snape articulates, eyeing Harry as if he’s trying to catch him in some irresponsible act. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on testing these waters with your friends—you’ll no doubt find that they’re a bit too deep for your liking.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s just that I hadn’t heard of this type of spell work before. I’m not sure I grasp all of it, to be honest.” He knows that he just made himself vulnerable to a snide comment, but he’s amazed that Snape doesn’t deliver one. “If you aren’t busy…” Harry swallows and begins to close a tome in order to indicate that he could otherwise dismiss himself. He doesn’t want to be humiliated after silently calling for a truce.

Snape takes another look at one of the open scrolls before moving over to the stove. He opens one of the top cupboards to reveal his collection of tea.

“I can afford to indulge you for a few moments, Potter, but don’t expect favors from me if you’ve no intention of learning anything.” Well, this isn’t going as poorly as Harry had envisioned. Harry grabs the tome directly in front of him and flips back a couple of pages.

“Well, this book says—“

‘A few moments’ of Snape’s time turned into about an hour of idle conversation about joint-user spells. All the while, Harry scribbled down some notes and Snape leaned back against the counter, taking periodic sips of his tea. It baffled and motivated Harry in equal measure—Snape didn’t abandon his usual condescension, but like Harry, he seemed to be treading on unusual ground. Harry didn’t want his to get his hopes up, but he felt like it was safe to assume that Snape was just as uninterested in fighting as Harry was.

Harry genuinely felt as if he’d learned something about a topic he held interest in. While not the epitome of comfort, the farmhouse kitchen provided less tension and pressure than the dark potions classroom back at Hogwarts. Snape has always struck Harry as a clever wizard with more skill than he tends to let on; it’s kind of frustrating that he’s so bollocks at teaching children.

As Harry closes all of his books and tidies up the stray pieces of parchment, ‘I’m sorry’ sits on the tip of his tongue. His unprompted chores and asking Snape for aid were supposed to count as an apology, and Harry thinks that his professor got the hint, but it still doesn’t sit right with him. Harry opens his mouth and shuts it again as he watches Snape tidy up the kettles and cups with a wave of his wand. Perhaps it’s best not to poke at a dog with a stick; better to leave it alone and avoid the potential of starting another argument.

Lupin was right—Snape is a stubborn person, and a Slytherin to boot. If Harry brings up what happened yesterday, the man may very well lose his temper again.

“Thanks,” Harry decides to say, “For helping with this, I mean.” Snape doesn’t reply to that directly.

“I still have cauldrons that need to be scrubbed,” says Snape, and Harry understands what he’s getting at.

“I can clean them tomorrow, if you need me to.”

Snape’s mouth only quirks slightly before he leaves the room without another word. Harry picks up his books and counts that as a victory.

The next morning bears nothing thrilling, though Harry is grateful for some sense of normalcy. He gets to eat breakfast and take a shower before spending two hours scrubbing cauldrons in the potions lab. Harry and Snape don’t converse much as Snape brews something that looks thin and clear, but when they do speak, neither one of them is terribly rude. When Harry asks what Snape is working on, his professor informs him that it’s an elixir for skin regeneration and scar diminishment. When Snape asks if McGonagall’s summer assignments appear to be difficult, Harry says that they don’t seem too confusing.

The morning makes Harry wonder if the next two months could go on this way, with the mutual understanding that they both get on each other’s nerves. While the silent truce is tentative, it doesn’t seem impossible to keep from yelling at one another for the duration of the season. Harry thinks about the possibility of more occlumency sessions in the future, but he isn't comfortable with bringing it up just yet.

Harry is drying off his final cauldron when Snape’s attention is drawn to a green, glowing sigil inscribed on the nearby blackboard…it certainly wasn’t glowing before now. Harry took notice of some of the chalk symbols earlier, but he just assumed that they had something to do with Snape’s in-progress brews. The irritated look on Snape’s face suggests otherwise.

“Bastard,” Harry faintly hears Snape mutter under his breath, and his professor turns to pin Harry with a bitter frown. “Get upstairs,” Snape gestures stiffly towards the staircase, and his tone leaves no room for questioning. Harry quickly makes his way up the wooden steps with Snape following behind him. When they emerge into the hallway, Snape seals the door to his lab with a flick of his wand before striding immediately to the front door.

“I’m leaving for a few hours,” Snape says without looking over his shoulder. “Stay put, and don’t do anything idiotic while I’m gone,” Is all he tells Harry before slamming the front door behind him.

Harry is left blinking owlishly for a few seconds in the middle of the empty foyer. His thoughts immediately turn to the idea of Snape being summoned. Did the sigil indicate that Dumbledore or the Order was calling for Snape? If he were going to a Death Eater meeting, it seems that his Dark Mark would be hurting instead, and he’d have no need for a different type of signal. Snape certainly left in a hurry, and that fact alone twists Harry’s stomach into anxious knots.

The determination that Harry felt yesterday kept him from feeling awkward, but now he’s being hit with new worries. What should he be doing in order to occupy his time? He doesn’t want to do too much around here without Snape’s permission. Working on school assignments is fine, but he doesn’t want to spend another three hours staring at books today.

It’s frustrating to know that he can’t do but so much. Not only is he a minor, but he’s also the recognizable icon with a target on the back of his head; he can’t even think about setting foot in a place like Diagon Alley without risking controversy in the papers.

Harry folds his arms and takes a look around before deciding that he should go outside and check on the hens and ducks. The sun hasn’t peaked in the sky yet, and it isn’t but so warm—it makes Harry wonder how hot it even gets in this part of the countryside, and if he’ll ever need to wear anything other than jeans here.

The hens are fine, though they’re more than happy to titter around Harry’s feet when he gathers scratch feed out of a nearby bin and toss handfuls into the dirt. Harry decides that he should probably just sit down with the hens and read another book for an hour or so, but that’s when he hears another noise coming from the barn.

Harry turns around and listens closely. It sounds like something striking wood again, but it’s definitely more of a restless and repetitive commotion this time around. There’s no denying that Harry wants to find out why Snape told him not to enter the barn. Harry glances around the front yard; even if the cat isn’t charmed, he feels better knowing that she isn’t around at the moment.

The cat’s absence allows Harry to make up his mind, and he almost immediately heads to the barn. Snape said that he would be gone for a couple of hours, but Harry will err on the side of caution and make this quick. Once Harry’s at the barn’s main doors, he can hear the faint sound of shifting metal. Harry doesn’t realize that he’s sweating until he grabs the door handle and finds that his grip is a little slippery. He pushes and pulls only to meet resistance—locked. Harry’s brow creases with thought, and he makes his way around the right side of the barn. There, he finds a row of barrels lined up along the outer wall. A couple of them are positioned right beneath a window—more of an open square, really, as it has no glass or shutters—so Harry guesses that it’ll be his ticket inside.

The barrels aren’t flimsy and they don’t rock underneath his feet as Harry climbs on top of them; he grabs onto the window frame and peers inside the barn. The interior is very dark, and there are multiple stables lining the walls, making it hard for Harry to see beyond them. Harry doesn’t spot anything in the two closest stables, and he doesn’t hear much else for a moment, leaving him somewhat disappointed. His gut tells him that he should head on back to the house, but he finally hears that rattling sound again, and his mind is made up.

“Alright, here we go,” Harry grunts, climbing head-first through the open window. It’s not an easy squeeze, and getting his legs through the opening without falling straight into the dirt is tricky, but he manages. He lands in a shallow mound of straw that manages to cushion his landing a bit, and he gets a better look at his surroundings.

Light filters down through a couple of glass-covered windows, high above the rafters, and Harry watches as dust motes dance around in the streaking rays. As Harry rounds the corner of a stable, he notices a pitchfork and a—

Harry gasps and ducks back around the corner of the nearest stable, pressing his back against the wooden panels. A curious huff sounds out from a few yards away, and Harry briefly wonders how quickly he’d be able to get back to the window, even though he has nothing to climb onto from this side. There’s the distinct sound of a chain moving about in the dirt, and Harry swallows hard. He grabs onto the side of the stable door and slowly peers around the corner, moving carefully so as not to make a sound.

Standing in the middle of the barn, near the back wall, is a hippogriff; one of massive size and dignified stature. If it were any darker in here, it would be hard to distinguish the pitch black feathers and slate-colored coat. There’s a makeshift, wooden collar-frame circling the beast’s neck, and Harry notices two thick chains connecting it to the barn’s walls; the chains are fairly slack, so the hippogriff seems to be able to move around quite a bit and not stay completely restricted.

The beast is staring directly at Harry, and Harry feels a bit foolish for acting like it probably wasn’t aware of his presence the entire time. Harry slowly steps out from his pseudo-hiding place, and he shows the hippogriff his palms in a placating manner. The beast is huge—larger than Harry remembers Buckbeak being—and its dark eyes glitter when the light hits them.

It seems to move about and squawk with dissatisfaction once Harry reveals himself completely; it digs at the ground, and its dark tail swishes about like a whip. If Harry weren’t sweating much before, he definitely is now, as he remembers his first meeting with Buckbeak. Harry stares up at the hippogriff while slowly lowering his stance, stooping down into a bow. The hippogriff’s noises are cut off abruptly, as if it's immensely surprised by Harry’s actions. It tilts its head with an air of intrigue, but it never bows in return. In fact, it gives Harry an almost dismissive flick of its tail and turns away, raising its head with a haughty attitude. Harry gapes, almost offended, and stands up straight.

“Bratty bird,” Harry mutters, but the hippogriff doesn't seem to like his tone. Luckily, Harry staggers back just in time as the beast lunges forward and snaps its beak at Harry. Its chains don't run out of slack, so it must not feel too put off, but Harry is rattled nonetheless.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Harry dismisses himself, heading to the main doors. He unlocks them in order to leave, but resets the lock before exiting.

Make that two broody asses on the property that don't seem to want to get along with Harry. Harry tries not to be too discouraged—honestly, he probably shouldn’t mess with the hippogriff, but he’s curious about its reason for being here, and he’d like to try and get it to trust him. If he gets an opportunity in the next few days, he’ll return to the barn and attempt another bow.

As Harry returns to the farmhouse, he gets a vague sort of feeling, like someone’s eyeing the back of his head. He just barely notices, and thus he waves it off. It’s probably that damn cat staring at him again. 


	5. Muffled Movements

Believe it or not, seven days passed uneventfully—there was no drama or ruckus to speak of, really. There had come a point where Harry had quite literally pinched himself, for he couldn’t believe that Snape hadn’t threatened to strangle him and dump him in a river at any point in time.

Harry spent all of his time doing mundane tasks around the farm and learning anything that Snape was willing to teach. He cleaned cauldrons, chopped up potions ingredients, did a bit of stirring when Snape couldn’t be bothered to do so, and he asked questions until his professor had his fill of social interaction. Harry was steadily making progress on all of his summer assignments, and he was proud to say that he felt like he was applying himself. Being around such a finicky adult was a subtle motivator. Additionally, it’s not like Harry had much of a choice; even though Harry couldn’t send Hermione a letter, he could hear his friend telling him to stay productive.

Snape had been brewing many potions and concocting many salves, all of which had properties geared towards healing and status improvement. Harry couldn’t be sure if they had anything to do with the official start of the Second Wizarding War. Watching Snape bottle blood-replenishing potions did make anxiety bubble in Harry’s stomach—were Order members being hurt while on missions? How were Arthur and Molly doing? Were the Death Eaters gaining much traction?

Harry had wanted to ask all of these questions, but he doubted that Snape would react kindly to them. He had to have faith that if anything serious happened within the Order, Snape or someone else would update him.

As for the hippogriff problem…Well, Harry has only been able to sneak into the barn once within the past week. Snape has either been staying at the house or only leaving in short intervals. Another bow was attempted, but the prissy creature turned its beak up at Harry yet again. He has plans to try and feed it sometime during his next visit, but Harry has to wait until Snape’s off on a trip.

 

Currently, Harry’s sitting at a small desk down in Snape’s lab. It surprises him how willingly Snape allows him to come down here, but he supposes that Snape doesn’t complain much about having someone else around to do manual labor. He only gets snide comments about his incompetence whenever he gets lost in thought and cuts lemongrass every _fourth_ inch instead of every third inch.

Harry’s unspoken truce is still tentative and he has no desire to let Snape find out about his barn exploration. They throw quips at each other from time to time, but it almost feels rehearsed considering they’ve been doing this ever since Harry got off the bloody train at age eleven. Overall, the situation is still gauche and tense, but Harry's starting to believe that it’s manageable.  

That is, until one of the sigils on the blackboard lights up red, accompanied by a polite chime. Snape’s head jerks to the side and his shoulders tense up immediately. He whirls on Harry and—not very gently—hauls him up from his seat with a thin hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

“Hey!” Harry protests, but is otherwise stunned as Snape pushes him towards the stairs.

“We have company,” Snape explains, brisk and straight to the point. “As far as my uninvited guest is concerned, _you_ are nowhere near this place.” Harry rushes up the steps with Snape looming behind him, making their footing in the narrow hallway clumsy.

“ _Company_?” Harry exclaims. “What happened to no one knowing about this place?” He’s already flustered with irritation and confusion; what’s the point of being here at all if others can apparate within the wards?

“Not that it was supposed to be relevant to your stay here,” Snape hisses through gritted teeth, “But my wards will accept individuals that I permit to know of my property.” Snape sounds angry, and it takes a few seconds for Harry to process that this anger isn’t directed at him. Snape’s been caught off guard. Taken by surprise. This ‘uninvited’ guest is just as off-putting to Snape as it is to Harry.

“You will go into the guest room, and you will _stay there_ until I say otherwise. No sneaking off with your broomstick, and no releasing your owl,” Snape’s drawl is tight. Then he pauses. Harry is standing on the main staircase with Snape glaring up at him sternly.

“You will not make a _sound_ ,” Snape commands, his intensity making Harry sweat just a bit. “If you are discovered here, I can assure you that the outcome will not be _favorable_ to you.”

With that, Harry has no choice but to hurry up the stairs, swing into his guest room, and shut the door firmly behind him. Thankfully, Hedwig is out of her cage but the windows are shut. She’s very well-behaved but hopefully she won’t find a reason to start fussing within the next…well…for however long he’s stuck up here. Harry hears a couple of noises from downstairs but he can only distinctly make out the sound of the front door banging open.

Harry’s mind reels; why would Snape ensure Dumbledore secrecy if he knew of other people that had access to his location? How many unexpected visitors could Harry anticipate popping in throughout the summer? If it were a member of the Order, Harry wouldn’t have to worry about staying hidden, which means…

There’s a Death Eater downstairs. Or at least someone close enough to Voldemort’s pureblood reach to warrant caution. Harry makes up his mind almost immediately; he can’t risk being caught, but he has to at least find out who’s been given Snape’s permission to enter his wards. Harry takes off his sneakers, opting for the safer option of his socks, and heads over to the bed to throw open one of his traveling bags.

“Please stay quiet,” Harry whispers to Hedwig, a joking grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the circumstances. He pulls his invisibility cloak from his bag and wraps it around his body. He wouldn’t mind being able to cast a silencing charm for extra insurance, but this will have to do for now. Harry creeps toward the bedroom door and makes careful work of turning the doorknob. The latch gives, and it barely makes a sound, but now Harry has to worry about the door itself; he honestly doesn’t know if it creaks when opened.

The hinges squeak but only for a split second, and Harry only opens it wide enough for him to squeeze through the gap. The shuffle around the bannister isn’t challenging, and none of the floorboards creak, but looking down at the staircase causes anxiety to rise in Harry’s chest. He’s never had much of a need to figure out which spots of this house make noises, not to mention he’s only been here for a little over a week. Back at the Dursley’s, he knew every single inch of floor space that groaned or shifted beneath his feet. He had to memorize every bad step in order to get by—in order to sneak food from the kitchen or use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Harry can hear muffled voices. If he peers down over the railing, he can see where the tile of the kitchen floor starts; that’s where the voices are coming from. Harry takes a deep breath and slowly moves his right foot down a step. The next step creaks a bit but Harry cuts to the chase and hurries downward. Some steps give no resistance and the rest don’t seem to make too much noise; Harry follows through to the bottom of the staircase, and hopes that there’s enough going on in the kitchen to effectively distract Snape and his guest.

Not wanting to stand in the middle of the foyer, Harry shuffles over to the corner wall that gives him a complete view of the kitchen. What Harry ends up seeing makes him draw a shocked breath, and he has to cover his mouth in order to better ground himself.

The kitchen floor is covered in haphazard puddles and splashes of blood, some spots smeared and other spots looking somewhat watered down. The figure of a man is seated in the nearest chair with his back facing Harry. His shoulders heave with slow, labored breaths. A heavy cloak with a dark fur pelt slides off of his form and lands in an undignified heap on the now-dirtied floor. When the man turns his head slightly, Harry recognizes him.

Lucius Malfoy looks like he’s been gnawed on by a dragon. His blonde locks lack their usual glow; they’re gathered over one shoulder in a tangled braid with stray hairs sticking to one another. From what Harry can see, Malfoy’s white shirt is ruined—rips, tears, sweat, and more blood. The man is lacking his usual decadent earrings and nail polish. Whatever usually holds Lucius Malfoy together--whether it be magic or self-importance--is currently absent. 

Harry, otherwise awed by the sight, has to keep from jumping out of his socks when the cellar door opens with a clatter. Snape takes hurried strides back into the kitchen, a vial of something light blue clutched in his hand. Harry hadn’t even noticed that he was elsewhere to begin with.

Snape stands in front of Malfoy, whose form seems to go through a full-body shudder at random intervals. Snape uncorks the vial and Harry’s eyes widen when his professor guides the vial to Malfoy’s face with a surprisingly patient gesture. Malfoy suddenly clutches at his torso with his right arm and hisses in pain, but that doesn’t stop him from downing the offered potion.

Once the initial shock starts to wear off, Harry’s blood begins to boil. Malfoy had been at the battle at the Department of Mysteries. He was there when Bellatrix murdered Sirius, and the bastard had managed to slip away just before the Minister arrived. Not that Harry’s word hadn’t been taken into consideration when he recounted the events over and over again, but apparently Malfoy’s been on the run for the last few weeks. The Ministry desires to question him—bring him into a trial—but they’ve only managed to get a hold of Narcissa and Draco, and both of them deny knowing where the patriarch is.

Harry feels his teeth grind together. One of Voldemort’s prominent Death Eaters is sitting not ten feet away from him. The coward needs to be rotting in Azkaban, but Snape is here tending to his health instead. Harry’s fists tighten so fiercely that his dull fingernails dig into his palms. He wants to act; he wants to avenge Sirius in whatever way he can manage, but he has to be rational. He can even hear Hermione in the back of his head. Rational.

“Have you taken absolute leave of your senses?” Snape hisses, tightening his hand around the empty vial. It vanishes into thin air before it can crack under the pressure.

“Glad to see you, too, Severus,” Lucius wheezes, throat hoarse. He props a shivering arm on the kitchen table in order to lean some of his weight on it.

“You can no longer waltz in here at any given moment!” Snape delivers an angry flick of his wand and all of the blood on the floor disappears. “In fact, I’ve half the thought to ban you from my ward exemptions completely!”

“And have me go where?!” Malfoy snaps, voice rising slightly before he doubles back over into a coughing fit. Blood appears on his lower lip before he brushes it away with a bruised hand. Snape’s eyes close briefly, as if he’s mentally counting to ten.

“We are playing the long game, or have you forgotten?” Snape intones as if he’s lecturing someone in class. “There could be Order of the Phoenix meetings taking place here.”

Harry swallows hard and his heart is like a battering ram in his chest. Snape’s words make him queasy. Dumbledore has told him time and time again that Snape is a loyal spy, but it’s unnerving to see Snape actively playing the part.

“I’m no idiot, no matter how many times you insist that I am,” Malfoy smirks. “But I cannot go back to the manor. I’d be whisked off to Azkaban within hours. Fucking Ministry watchdogs.” Snape waves his wand lazily at Malfoy, and Malfoy makes an unbecoming noise, clutching at his ribs. Perhaps one of them is broken and is now on the mend. There is a moment of tense silence in which Snape only stares down at Malfoy, expression unreadable.

“…Each day is the same,” Malfoy speaks quietly, and Harry strains to hear. “He is unhappy with our failure at the Department, and with everyone else in bloody Azkaban, I’m sure you know who his current scapegoat is.” Malfoy takes a rattling breath. “Fucking look at me,” He sounds equally venomous and tired, “Not even worth using the Cruciatus today, apparently.”

“You did not ever intend for our master to return,” Snape drawls slowly, quietly retrieving a glass from the cupboard. Malfoy shudders at that, but Harry doesn’t know if it’s due to pain or Snape’s declaration. “Therefore you never know when to kiss his feet and when to _keep your mouth shut_.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Malfoy says, the misery in his tone giving Harry minute satisfaction. “All answers are incorrect, and the longer I have to stay in the current base, the worse it will become. I…” Malfoy hesitates before lifting his head up to look at Snape directly. “He is already beginning to turn to Draco.” Snape doesn’t flinch at this, he merely sets the glass down in front of Lucius and uses his wand to fill it with water. "I'd hoped we could turn Potter in--grab hold of him and have our master forgive everything...but it is becoming clear to me. We could toss Potter right at his feet, and he would spare me no mercy."

“What is your conclusion, Lucius?”

“I believe it would be best…if Draco could remain here.”

“You have gone completely mad!” Snape towers over Malfoy, folding his arms. “You’d have me turn against our master because his eye is fixed on your yellow-bellied behavior? One glimpse into your thick skull and he would know exactly who’s hidden your son and where! We should not even be having this conversation!” Snape looks like he’s about to start pacing but he stops himself, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I can pull my weight.”

“Clearly,” Snape huffs sarcastically, to which Malfoy staggers to his feet and grabs hold of the front of Snape’s robes. Malfoy’s movements are stilted and he looks ready to collapse at any moment, but he firmly matches Snape’s gaze. There’s a moment in which he seems unable to think of what to say.

“…Did Narcissa put you up to this?” Snape asks quietly. Malfoy lets go of Snape’s cloak as if he’d been stung on the hand.

“You think I’ve no concern for the safety of my son?” Lucius’ tone is one that Harry could’ve never imagined him using.

“I think,” Snape says carefully, “That you are weighing the benefits of staying in Azkaban for the remainder of the war.”

Seconds tick by and Malfoy is so still that Harry almost wonders if time is frozen. Snape tilts his head slightly to one side.

“Am I wrong?” He asks Malfoy.

“…So bloody perceptive, no wonder you’re the spy.” Lucius’ posture straightens as he musters up a bit of his usual air.

“The three of you cannot simply flee the country?” Snape raises his eyebrows.

“You know all too well that such a move would give him some motivation. Best to hide in plain sight, as Narcissa figures. You also understand that she’s more than capable of holding her own. It’s Draco that concerns her.” Malfoy’s eyes narrow and he pins Snape with a disapproving look. “…You and Narcissa seem to have information that I’m conveniently lacking. I’m unaware of what’s to come, but I can read a room well enough.” Lucius lowers his voice. “My window is shrinking by the day, Severus. Soon, it will be time for me to run, and I cannot bring Draco with me. You know this.”

“You ask me to risk my position—one that I have worked tirelessly for—and my life. Based on what?” Snape asks, exhaustion peeking through in his voice.

“Based on this,” Lucius declares firmly, yanking up on a necklace that was tucked underneath his shirt. From where he stands, Harry has no idea what Malfoy is holding, but it’s attached to the thin chain wrapped broadly around his neck. There is another long, drawn out silence, and not for the first time throughout this entire ordeal, Harry feels uneasy about eavesdropping. He doesn’t want to say guilty—he shouldn’t feel guilty for any reason in regards to Malfoy—but he is betraying the very sensitive trust that Snape has placed in him. If he ever finds out about this in an Occlumency session…

“Am I supposed to believe that you would do the same for me, were I in your position?” Snape finally decides to ask. Lucius’ pale mouth curves upwards, and his eyes don’t seem cold.

“Perhaps not, but you’ve always been softer than you appear.”

“Funny, you’ve always been exactly as self-serving and insipid as you appear.”

“Better than being a Gryffindor,” Lucius smirks wryly, pushing his necklace underneath his shirt collar. Snape sighs and takes a step away from Malfoy, more or less removing himself from anything close to sentiment. Lucius no longer seems to be bleeding from any wounds, but he still moves with a stiff, aching limp.

“I will… _think_ about your request,” Snape almost sighs. “I would need time to prepare. Form a plan. We cannot simply hope to cross our fingers and believe our master will turn the other cheek.” Lucius nods firmly, his posture finally regaining most of its previous formality. He seems to be less battered than when Harry first saw him.

“That is all I ask.” That seems to be posh pureblood for ‘thank you.’ Snape mutters something under his breath but Harry doesn’t catch it and apparently neither does Lucius. Lucius asks Snape to repeat himself but Snape seems content with shutting up for the evening. Malfoy stretches out his hand and his thick cloak flies into his palm from where it was crumpled on the floor. Harry understands the motions to depart when he sees them, so he peels himself away from where he was hiding in the entryway.

He’d almost felt rooted to the spot, unable to move completely. He’s thankful that he didn’t stub his toe or trip on air on his way back up the staircase. He didn’t realize it before, but he’s trembling a little now—especially his hands. There was a lot of information to take in; the familiarity with which they spoke to each other, Malfoy’s situation with Voldemort, his backwards plan to hide Draco…it’s almost too much for Harry to process. More than anything, he wishes that Hermione and Ron were here at the moment.

Can he even begin to feign ignorance? How well will he be able to hide the truth from Snape, especially when they’re living in such close bloody quarters? He desperately wants to yell at Snape for cooperating with Malfoy, of all people, but he also wants to ask questions. Once again, he’s the center of the entire war, but he’s being left out of absolutely every important interaction. All of these decisions have to be made by those around him, and they tiptoe around Harry all the while. It’s maddening.

Once Harry’s back in his room, he can hear the front door opening followed by the crackling sound of apparition. He takes a huge, gulping breath to relieve the tension in his shoulders and he peels off the invisibility cloak. Harry stuffs it back into his bag and falls bodily back onto his bed. Hedwig trills at him softly from where she’s perched in her cage. He has no choice but to play this by ear. Harry should know—he believes he has a right to know—about the conversation with Malfoy, but he’s going to have to play with whatever hand Snape deals to him.

Harry stares up at the blank ceiling above as warring emotions tug back and forth in his head. He feels angry and confused. He feels hatred for Lucius Malfoy, which extends to his loathing of all the other Death Eaters that were present at the Department of Mysteries. He feels like he’ll never be able to trust Snape, no matter what Dumbledore says. He feels longing for Sirius and Remus; he wants one of them to show up and look at him, and assure him that he’s doing the best he can.

Above all else, he just feels even more isolated than when he first arrived ten days ago.


End file.
